


Unfinished

by Frayach



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-11 13:25:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4437116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frayach/pseuds/Frayach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a collection of started but unfinished stories.  Some are short and others are multi-chaptered.  Some are dead as a doornail and others are stories I'd love to pick-up again at some stage (and thus would really appreciate feedback).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Day In The Life . . .

**Author's Note:**

> I am one of those writers who, for every story I post, there are three that I don't, and it's not because some of them aren't promising. I just sometimes run out of steam or get distracted and have a hard time finding my way back. It seems a shame that the good ones will never see the light of day in one way or another, so this collection is a way of digging them out of the hard drive, blowing off the dust and sharing them with you guys. I hope you enjoy them. I'll be posting them alphabetically.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a sweet, fun little ficlet about what a typical morning in the Taylor-Kinney household is like. Set during mid-season two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was designed as a fill-in-the-blank gapfiller. We rarely get a glimpse of normality with Brian and Justin - it's usually all drama, drama, drama. I wanted to write about something totally mundane to give a sense of what life was like for them in-between momentous events. Style-wise, it's an experiment in mixed third-person perspective. Even though I won't be adding another chapter, I'm still very curious to hear you guys' thoughts.

**Chapter One: A Totally Boring, Unremarkable, Mundane Day in the Kinney-Taylor household**

The alarm clock goes off. It’s still dark outside because it’s late November, which makes getting up harder and the residents of the loft at the corner of Tremont and Fuller grumpier than usual.

Brian groans.

Justin groans.

“Really? _Really?_ ”

“Fuck.”

“It’s six already?”

“Yup. At least that’s what the clock says.”

“I hate the clock.”

“It hates you.”

“Clearly.”

“Ow.”

“What’s wrong?”

“My neck hurts.”

“It’s these new pillows. I’ll give you a neck rub in the shower.”

“Before or after the blowjob?”

“It’s up to you.”

Brian stretches and sits up. Friday. Thank God. He’ll have to work a bit on the weekend, but at least it won’t involve a client meeting. He’d had back-to-back meetings all week, and the other stuff he has to do kept piling up. Hopefully, he can make a significant dent in it today without having to stay late. He hated staying late at the office on Friday nights. 

Justin reaches out and scratches Brian’s back like a giant, lazy cat. He loves Brian in the mornings – the way he smells like sleep and yawns cavernously.

Brian turns and catches Justin’s hand. He raises it to his mouth and gives it a little bite. 

“Who gets the toilet first?”

“Whoever gets there first.”

“That’s not fair. Your side of the bed is closer.”

Brian stands and Justin launches himself at him, pulling him back down on the mattress and scrambling over him. Brian grabs him by the waist, and Justin squawks indignantly.

“No grabbing! It’s not fair!”

“There are rules? I wasn’t made privy to any rules.”

“Dammit, Brian! I really have to pee and you’re making matters worse.”

“Alright, alright. I will allow you to relieve yourself.”

“You’re so generous and kind.”

“I try.”

“But not very hard.”

“Actually, I’m quite hard.”

“I meant ‘hard’ as in ‘difficult.’”

“I know. I purposefully misunderstood you.”

“How can one ‘purposefully misunderstand’ something? Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

“Oh my God. Shut up. I’m dying here. Are you done yet? Why aren’t you done yet? Is it that you can’t be a smartass and piss at the same time?”

“Pushy, pushy. Here, the toilet’s all yours.”

Justin turns on the shower, laughing when Brian throws his head back with a groan of pleasure as he empties his bladder.

“Everything that involves your dick makes you happy.”

“And that’s a bad thing because?

“Not saying it’s a bad thing; I’m just making an observation.”

Brian shakes the last drops from his dick and joins Justin in the shower. He pours shampoo in his palm and starts massaging it into Justin’s hair.

“So, are you going to be as brilliant today as always?”

“Of course. I’m never not brilliant.”

Justin snorts. Brian’s fingers feel so good. Between the massage and the mint-scented shampoo, he feels himself coming to life. He is not a morning person. When Brian starts scrubbing his neck and back with a soapy cloth he closes his eyes and smiles. Life is good.

“Don’t fall back asleep.”

“I won’t. I don’t want to drown.”

“You can’t drown in a shower.”

“Turkeys would though – well, domesticated turkeys. The drops would get into their nose holes”

“Oh my God. What are you babbling about now?”

“I’m serious. Domestic turkeys are really dumb. They’ve had the brains bred out of them. You can provide them with shelter from the elements, but they’re too stupid to use it.”

“So, they drown.”

“Yup.”

“How do you know shit like that?”

Justin shrugs. “I don’t know. I just do.”

“Well, you’d better be careful and stay away from Wikipedia. You’ll overload your brain with random, useless shit.”

“Oh, I see. So instead of educating myself, I should watch porn.”

“Who says you’re not getting an education when you watch porn? I learned a lot for porn. Here, I’ll provide you with a demonstration.”

Brian lowers himself to him knees and tucks their water-proof cock-sucking pillow under them. Shower floors are hard! Justin cock is already swollen. Justin has a perfect cock – the right length, the right girth, the right color, the right taste. And it’s so responsive! Brian loves sucking it. He licks it teasingly for a while and then swallows it when its lurches and baps him in the nose.

Justin combs his fingers into Brian’s hair and looks down. He loves watching Brian suck him. There’s something about Brian on his knees servicing him that drives him mad with lust.

Brian sits back on his heels, releasing Justin’s cock with a slurpy “pop” sound. He holds up his hand. Justin doesn’t need to ask what he’s seeking. He gives Brian the bar of soap and then groans with bliss when Brian slides a soap-slick finger in his ass and recommences sucking his cock.

Brian relishes the sounds Justin is making. He always loves pleasuring Justin, but for some reason he enjoys doing it most in the morning. He loves waking Justin up. When Justin says his name, Brian redoubles his efforts. Justin fingers close into fists, pulling Brian’s hair. When he says Brian’s name, Brian pulls his finger out until only the very tip is inside. The rim of the asshole is intensely sensitive. He hums around his mouthful of cock, when Justin squeezes, trying desperately to keep Brian’s finger from slipping out all the way.

Jesus, Brian is so fucking good at sucking cock! Justin thinks and then falls over the edge of his orgasm. He can feel the muscles in Brian’s throat move as he swallows. Justin throws back his head and grins up at the ceiling. He loves thinking about his come in Brian’s stomach. The memory will cross his mind several times over the course of the morning.

Brian pulls his finger out and stands up, grinning when he sees Justin’s dazed expression.

“You just consumed about 75 to 100 calories,” Justin says. “I know you document your calorie intake, so be sure to add that to your calculations. Semen also contains 200 separate proteins, as well as vitamins and minerals including vitamin C, calcium, chlorine, citric acid, fructose, lactic acid, magnesium, nitrogen, phosphorus, potassium, sodium, vitamin B12 and zinc.”

Brian boggles at him. “Nitrogen? Isn’t that an atomic element or something? Don’t people make bombs with it? Are you saying I swallowed a come bomb?”

Justin laughs and soaps up his hand so he can jerk Brian off. His cock is rigid and his balls already drawn up tight against his body.

“Yes, it’s atomic number seven on the periodic table. It comprises much of the Milky Way.”

Brian laughs. “Now, _that_ is very fitting. Milky Way. I like it. I just sucked some of the Milky Way out of your balls.”

“Uhm. Okay. I guess so, but actually . . .”

“Don’t ruin my fun with your facts.”

They position themselves so that Justin is pressed against Brian’s back so he can reach around Brian’s waist and take his cock in hand.

“Want your beads?”

“That’s a really stupid question.”

“Just making sure.”

Justin retrieves the anal beads from the corner shelf and soaps them. Brian groans as he pushes them in. God, he _loves_ putting things in Brian’s ass! He goes back to jerking Brian off until Brian takes over. It’s a sign that he’s ready to come. Slowly, Justin begins pulling out the beads, one by one. Brian comes just as the last leaves his body. It’s so ridiculously fucking hot.

“Good?”

“Very good. I like those new beads. The last one is just the right size.”

Brian is still boneless as Justin starts washing his back. The cloth is slightly scratchy and feels really good. He loves this – taking showers with Justin. When they’re clean and all the soap and shampoo is rinsed off. Brian turns off the shower and reaches for their towels, handing one to Justin.

Brian lathers his chin and throat with shaving cream. Justin shaved last night before they went out, so he doesn’t need to. But he loves watching Brian shave. He sits down on the lid of the toilet, and Brian smiles at him in the mirror.

“Ah, the benefits of being a twink,” Brian says as he rinses shaving cream and whiskers off his razor and then returns to his task. “You don’t need to shave every morning.”

“I am _not_ a twink,” Justin says with mock indignation. “I’m a . . .”

“A twat. If you’re not a twink, you’re a twat.”

Justin rolls his eyes and examines his finger nails. They’re okay for the moment, but he’s going to have to trim them soon. If he doesn’t, Brian will start nagging him. Brian hates long fingernails – not only because he dislikes the way they look, but because it’s uncomfortable and potentially injurious when Justin fingers him. Rectal tissue tears easily.

Brian splashes water on his face and then pats it dry.

“So, anything interesting planned for the day?” he asks. He’s always curious. He has a hard time picturing Justin’s life at PIFA. He’s never been there. Perhaps he should ask Justin to give him a tour sometime. He likes being able to imagine where Justin is and what he’s doing.

“I’ve got art history at ten, and then I’m meeting Daphne for lunch . . .”

“God, you guys are practically Siamese twins. Don’t you want to make friends with fellow students?”

“ . . . then I’m meeting with my advisor, and then I have still-life at four.”

Brian frowns.

“How’s that going? Your hand bothering you?”

Justin reaches out and touches Brian’s shoulder, lightly grazing Brian’s skin from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. He’s always moved when Brian asks him about his hand.

“Not really. I just take my time.”

“What do you draw? Dead pheasants?” 

Justin laughs. “Dead pheasants? What are you talking about?”

“Isn’t that what all those Dutch guys were always painting? Pheasants and grapes and shit?

They walk into the bedroom and start getting dressed. Justin’s gaze strays often in Brian’s direction. He loves watching Brian put on his suit and tie.

“You mean, like, Adriaen van Utrecht and Davidszoon de Heem?”

“‘David _zoon_?’ Who names their kid ‘Davidzoon’?”

Brian loves teasing Justin. It’s one of his favorite hobbies – along with fucking Justin, of course. That went without saying.

Justin ignores him.

“While it’s true that pheasants are a common subject of the Flemish masters, they also liked to paint fish. And skulls.”

“Human skulls?”

“Yup. There’s this one painting that’s a skull surrounded by lettuce and tomatoes.”

“Gross. Remind me never to eat a salad in Belgium.”

Justin punches him in the bicep. Brian is hopeless sometimes. There’s no having a serious conversation with him.

Finally dressed and primped to his satisfaction, Brian heads for the kitchen. He pulls the blender out of the cabinet and starts making a protein shake.

“Those really aren’t very good for you!” Justin yells over the noise.

Brian ignores him.

Justin sighs. He hates that Brian has protein shakes for breakfast. He wishes Brian would eat real food, but even though Justin has bought fruit and granola, Brian stubbornly refuses to touch them. It annoys the hell out of Justin. He wants Brian to be healthy.

Brian leans against the counter and watches Justin chop up a banana and put it in a bowl of Cheerios. He’s fondly amused by Justin’s frown of concentration – but then remembers it’s because of his hand. A familiar wave of guilt washes over him. He dumps the last half of his shake down the drain.

“Hurry up,” he snaps. “I don’t want to be late.”

“Then go without me,” Justin snaps back. “I can get to school on my own.”

Brian grumbles something under his breath. Justin always wins these little battles of will, but that doesn’t mean Brian isn’t a sore loser.

“Today.”

“We’re not late yet.”

Brian goes to the couch and flops down on it with an exaggerated sigh. Justin completely ignores him. He’s about to get truly annoyed, but then he remembers it’s Friday and relaxes. 

Justin puts his empty bowl in the sink. Brian is sulking. It’s so cute.

“Ready.”

“About time.”

“You survived.”

“Barely. I was thinking about the whether I should be buried or cremated.”

“Cremated. Who wants to lie there for eternity surrounded by a bunch of rotting strangers?”

“Well, since you put it _that_ way, I’ll go with cremation. Just make sure you scatter my ashes at Babylon.”

Justin laughs and stands on his toes to kiss Brian’s lips. Brian responds by closing his eyes and opening his mouth. A touch of tongue sends the blood rushing to his groin. He’s horny again. He’s always horny around Justin. He’ll have to jerk off when he gets to work.

Brian picks of his briefcase, and Justin hoists his bag onto his shoulder. They walk down the stairs and then out the back exit into the parking lot. It’s crisp, but not cold.

“Should’ve worn something with long sleeves,” Brian says as they get into the Jeep.

“Yes, dad,” Justin replies.

Brian scowls. Justin grins. Brian hates being referred to as “dad.”

“Don’t worry. It’ll warm up. It’s supposed to reach 70 today.”

Brian pulls out into traffic. Justin looks at his profile. He loves looking at Brian’s profile, but it also makes him feel a twinge of sadness that he can’t explain. Maybe it’s that Brian seems so distant when he’s not looking at him.

“Asshole,” Brian says, punching the horn. “Look before you change lanes, you moron.”

“No road rage. It’s too early in the morning.”

“That wasn’t ‘road rage.’ I didn’t yell out the window and flip him the bird. I was perfectly civilized.”

“I suppose it is all relative.”

It’s only 7:30. What’re you going to do before your first class?”

“Rob a bank.”

“Good, then I won’t have to pay for your tuition anymore.”

“And I’ll be able to support you in your imminent dotage.”

“Ha ha. . . . . Asshole!!”

“Now, that time you shouted. Maybe we should stop for coffee.”

“There’s no Starbucks out here in artsy-fartsy land. I’m not stopping at one of you guys’ hipster coffee shops. There might be a folksinger or, God forbid, a poetry reading going on.”

Brian grimaces and feigns a whole-body shudder. Justin punches his arm.

“You might like . . .”

“Let me just stop you there: I can assure you that I wouldn’t like _anything_ taking place in one of the coffee shops around PIFA. As it is, I can barely tolerate the piercings, dreadlocks and body odor. By the way, what is it with you artist types and deodorant? Is it some kind of boycott? Is deodorant killing the Amazon rain forests?”

Justin turns toward the window and bites his lips to keep from laughing. Brian should _not_ be encouraged.

“Actually, it’s true. Spray deodorants contain aerosol and, aerosols contain Chlorofluorocarbon which depletes the ozone layer and causes deforestation. Many of the world’s rain forests will be gone by the end of the century.”

“Oh no. Where will all the wombats and poisonous frogs go?”

Justin has to bite his lip again. Brian is hilarious, but he’s also . . . well, Justin didn’t always know when he was kidding. Maybe he really doesn’t care about the rain forests . . . If he doesn’t, Justin would prefer not to know.

“Wombats don’t live in rain forests.”

“Well, that’s good. They won’t need to relocate.”

“You are so weird sometimes.”

“I am _not_ ‘weird.’ I am hung though.”

“Wow. That was a total non-sequitur.”

“Nothing involving my cock is ever a non-sequitur. Alright, here we are. Hurry up and get out. I’m late.”

“Have a nice day to you, too.”


	2. A Desire Once Granted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian and Justin have a unique arrangement. Can it survive the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune? (The answer is "yes.")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my first attempt at writing a Dom/sub story in which Brian is the Dom and Justin is the sub. It had real potential. I wrote it a fair while ago and can't remember why I didn't finish it. Perhaps it's because my imagination failed me. Despite reading a lot about Dom/sub relationships (and having great respect for my friends who practice the lifestyle), I still have a hard time conceptualizing what it's like on a day-to-day basis.

**Chapter One: The Big Fuck Up**

“Don’t do this!”

Justin pounded on the door. His voice was hoarse from yelling.

“Brian!”

Meanwhile, Brian stood leaning on his elbows on the kitchen counter with his face in his hands. In one reckless moment, he’d destroyed a bond that’d been the source of the greatest comfort he’d ever known in his life.

“Brian, please!”

This wasn’t right; on so many levels it was totally wrong. You don’t do this . . . you don’t fuck with Trust because once it’s been compromised, it’s as good as ruined. You don’t throw someone you own, body and soul, out the door – and out of your life – at the first real obstacle the two of you encounter. So, yes, it’s cancer. So, yes, it’s in one of your testicles. Big fucking deal. You’ll undergo surgery; you’ll beat it. You’re not going to die – it’s never even occurred to you that you might. So why the fuck did you throw the light of your life, your Sunshine, out the fucking door and then slam it in his face?

This is why he’s here. This is why he came back, and this is why he stays. To love you. To help you. To keep you human. To keep you safe. At the moment you need each other the most, you kick him out of your way like a dog . . . the dog you’d promised him he’d never ever be.

“Brian!”

Justin’s voice was choked with tears. This is the first time in a year that you’ll sleep alone – the first time he will too. Brian groaned into his hands; the cold fingers of the night already tightening around his throat. Where will Justin go??

He stood and walked to the door. He leaned his forehead against the metal, but he didn’t open it.

“Go to Daphne’s,” he said as if he still had the power – the _right_ – to tell Justin what to do. He’d forfeited that right, and it wasn’t his to take back. It was something that only Justin could return to him, and why would he? Brian had betrayed him. Brian had broken their agreement – an agreement that he’d swore to himself he’d keep.

 

_January, 2003_

 

They sat beside each other at the kitchen counter. Each had a bottle of water, and they snacked on pretzels Brian had poured into a mixing bowl and put between them. There wasn’t going to be a written document; neither of them felt it was necessary.

“Are you sure?” Brian asked for the hundredth time.

“Yes, I’ve already said I was,” Justin replied, amused, smiling.

Brian cleared his throat. “Alright then. You first.”

Justin took his hand even though they’d decided this wasn’t going to resemble a wedding ceremony – or any other kind of ceremony for that matter.

“I want to belong to you,” he said, his voice clear and sure. “I’ve thought about it for a long time, and I’ve decided that this is what I want.”

Brian swallowed. He’d known what Justin was going to say, but hearing it said . . . it was huge. Daunting. Even scary.

“And I want you to belong to me,” he said. He was trying his best to keep his voice from trembling. This was no time for weakness.

“I will do whatever you ask of me,” Justin continued. “I will trust you to always have my best interests at heart; I will trust you to defend and protect me. I will trust you to be honest with me. I trust you to make me your first priority. I trust that from here on out, you will do everything in your power to care for me. You will only correct me when I’ve erred, and you will praise me whenever I deserve it. You will give me no cause to doubt or distrust you. You will be my compass, and I will follow you, not because I feel that I have to in order to keep you, but because I want to.”

Brian swallowed again and briefly closed his eyes. _Don’t fuck this up,_ he told himself. _And don’t say it if you don’t fucking mean it. It starts here. It all starts here_.

“Nothing that I do or say will ever be intended to hurt or demean you,” he said, squeezing Justin’s hand. “Nothing I tell you to do will be intended to humiliate or frighten you. I will only punish you when I sincerely believe you need correction, and I will praise you when you please me – _every_ time you please me. I will make decisions that will cause us to grow closer, not apart. I will take care of you. I will defend and protect you to my last breath. If I disappoint you, it is due to my failings, not yours. You can expect me to treat you with respect. You can expect me to listen to you . . . and you can expect me to let you go should you want to leave.”

Justin smiled shakily. “I promise I will never leave . . .”

Brian reached out and touched his finger against Justin’s mouth.

“This is my first command,” he said, stumbling slightly over the foreignness of both the word and the concept. “You will never make a promise to me. And, in turn, I will never make a promise to you. Promises get broken, Justin. Their very existence presages failure.”

“‘Presages,’” Justin says with a mischievous grin. “You really _are_ serious, aren’t you?”

Brian smiled and pulled him close for a kiss. He was serious. Terrifyingly so.

“So,” he said when they came up for air. “Details. You first.”

“I don’t want to be reprimanded in public,” Justin replied. “I don’t want to be seriously injured. I don’t want to be humiliated . . . sorry, Brian, but I’ve had enough of being humiliated by you for a lifetime . . .”

Brian winced, but he forced himself not to look away.

“. . . I want to know the instant I upset you, and I want to be able to tell you if I’m upset without being mocked. I want to submit to your orders and fulfill your needs, so you need to tell me what they are. I want there to be _no_ secrets between us, and no boundaries we refuse to let the other cross. And I want a safe word that you will _always_ respect, no matter what.”

Brian nodded and then took a deep drink of water. Was this love? He wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was even greater, even more powerful.

“I will do what I want, when I want to,” Brian said. “I will fuck other guys, and I’ll come home only when I want to. You can expect me to be angry at you when you anger me, but I will never touch you with anything but respect and care. In fact, I _expect_ you to anger me. You won’t be growing if you don’t, and I . . .”

Brian closed his eyes on sudden tears as the future briefly unrolled before him all the way to the grave.

“. . . and I expect you to leave me if ever I try to confine or break you. If you ever realize I’ve taught you all that I can. If you ever realize you need more than I can give you.”

Justin squeezed his hand to the point of pain. “Brian,” he whispered. “I . . . this is forever.”

“Nothing is forever,” Brian interrupted him. Justin was going to have to learn to stop speaking in terms of infinity. “Choose a safe word,” he added to lighten the mood.

“Ariel,” Justin replies without even pausing to think. He’d obviously thought of it ahead of time. 

Brian raised a questioning eyebrow.

“The spirit in Shakespeare’s _The Tempest_ ,” Justin explained. “He was saved by Prospero, a great sorcerer, and forever indebted to him.”

Brian bit his lip. Leave it to a romantic like Justin to use the name of a Shakespearean character as his safe word in a Dom/sub relationship. 

“Okay,” he replied. “Duly noted.”

There was long awkward silence until Brian realized it was time to issue the first command. The words felt both strange and familiar on his tongue.

“Go to the bathroom and get in the shower,” he said.

And Justin unhesitatingly obeyed.

 

Their days (and nights) weren’t much different then they’d been in terms of the details. They still slept together in the same bed. They still showered together. When they ate at home, Justin ate at the table. Brian hadn’t wanted a slave; he’d wanted a submissive. He had no desire to humiliate Justin; in fact that idea was disturbing. He didn’t want a broken Justin; he wanted a strong, healthy, happy Justin who willingly desired to do Brian's bidding.

Most of the time, he didn’t have to say a word. Justin knew how to take care of him without being asked, but occasionally, Brian would give him an order that Justin would have to comply with. When he did, Brian would reward him with something special. His obvious thankfulness made Justin glow with pleasure, which in turn made Brian happy.

In public, they were the same as always. Brian didn’t make Justin walk three steps behind him (although Justin did wear a thin platinum collar to which Brian held the key). The primary difference was that Brian watched the world like a hawk looking out for anyone or anything that might harm Justin in any way. That was his job – keeping Justin safe and comfortable. That included insuring that Michael knew his place. A snippy tone or rolled eyes earned Michael a serious reprimand. Justin was _his_ to cherish and protect. With ownership comes great responsibility. Brian was determined to fulfill every obligation he’d incurred.

Another aspect of their agreement that helped them both be content was jealousy - or rather the complete absence thereof. Justin belonged to Brian, body and soul. There was no chance that Justin would fall in love with someone else. Brian could relax into the knowledge that there would be no more Ethans. Their vows were stronger than any marriage vows could be because their vows were their own. There would be no cheating. No lying. Their hearts were naked to each other. Justin no longer had to doubt for even a second that he was Brian's first priority in life.

The biggest change for both of them was that Justin did not leave the loft without Brian's permission. When he went to his classes, Brian drove him to PIFA and picked him up. If he wanted to get together with Daphne or his mom, he had to plead his case to Brian. Brian never said no, but saying "yes" or "no" wasn't the point. It was the act of seeking permission and the counter act of granting it. It made them both feel safe. Brian always knew where Justin was and what he was doing, and Justin always knew that Brian was one hundred percent fine with the situation. As for Brian - he still came and went as he pleased, but he always carried his cell phone. The agreement was that Brian could go anywhere he wanted and do whatever he wanted but that if Justin needed him, he would _always_ answer his call. Of course, Justin couldn't simply call him on a whim, but neither did he have to wait until a burglar broke-in. If he was feeling unloved and uncared for, he had the right to let Brian know and Brian had the obligation to comfort him, whatever that meant. In a year, Justin had only called Brian four times, and every time, Brian had dropped everything he was doing and gone home to hold him. Nothing more. Just kiss his forehead and hold him close for as long as it took for Justin to feel safe again.

* * * * * * *

Justin bent down to pick up the DVDs. His mind was blank. He could hear Brian’s voice telling him to go to Daphne’s, but it seemed to be coming, not from behind the door, but from a distant land from which he’d been exiled.

Outside, on the side walk, he looked around, his breath smoking in the sub-zero air. It was like he’d never stood on the corner of Tremont and Fuller before. Where was he? He felt lost . . . even worse, he felt abandoned. 

How had this happened?


	3. A Love Song for New York City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justin's impressions of New York. Set a day or two after he left Pittsburgh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell that I'm in love with New York City? Lol. Yes, it's true, which is why it's easy for me to understand its allure for Justin.

You are the magnet, and I am iron. Your draw is so powerful that it raises the tiniest hairs on my arms. I can resist you, but only at the detriment of my soul. Your name on my tongue has a taste. Subway steam. Hot pavement. Garbage rotting in the sun. Exhaust fumes. Countless street vendors. Sweat. Smoke from hookahs, cigarettes, incense, the fires lit by the homeless.

You are not Pittsburgh. You are not L.A. You’re not even London or Paris or Rome – or even Bangkok. You are New York. Imaginations cling to you tenaciously. You dream yourself into people’s lullabies. You are a mother, a father, a lover. Your bridges are your sinews, the parkways are your veins, the subway tunnels your capillaries, your smog your skin. You claim dominion over an entire country and merely deign to shake the hands of other nations.

From a plane, you are a million glints of sunlight off millions of windows. At any given minute, a million people are looking out. Who are they? Are they old? Are they young? Are they happy? Are they missing someone whose absence is a wound that’ll never heal? As soon as you enter the city’s airspace, they are your brothers, your sisters. Your days of loneliness are over.

You have been somebody’s something for your entire life. Your father’s son. Your mother’s son. Your sister’s brother. Your grandparents’ grandchild. Your best friend’s best friend. Your ex-fiancé’s ex-fiancé. New York doesn’t give a shit. When you are in New York, you are motherless, fatherless, friendless . . . and free. What do you want to be? Who do you want to be? This is your chance to be him. You want to be an artist? You can be an artist. It doesn’t matter where the fuck you live or whether or not you have a studio. Take your easel, put it down anywhere. Every color you’ve ever imagined is here. Every shadow, every shaft of light. Every face reveals a story, and there are nine million faces here. If you run out of inspiration, it’s because of your limitations, not New York City’s.


	4. Back From the Brink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during mid-Season Five - Brian and Justin have gone their separate ways and neither of them understands why. **WARNING! This ficlet is VERY disturbing!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy! This is Ugly with a capital "U." I think I can guess why I didn't finish it - too intense and depressing. I was trying to make sense of that whole period of time and how things had gotten so bad that they'd culminated in that terrible scene at Michael's house. I was also trying to make sense of why Justin stood at the top of the stairs and didn't intervene when Michael told Brian that Justin had left because of him. In this story, I think it's more than obvious.

**Chapter One: The Unraveling**

The only thing he wanted to do when he was a kid, even more than draw, was to play house. Daphne had a playhouse in her backyard, and they spent hours prowling the neighborhood looking for things with which to decorate it. At one point they had a broken-down armchair with worn velour upholstery, a little table with two unmatched chairs, lots of jars and bottles that they filled with flowers or rotting vegetables, and various dented pots, warped pans, chipped teacups and cracked dishes.

Acquiring stuff for their house was, for years, his single most favorite activity. He only stopped when he grew too tall to stand up straight without bumping his head on the ceiling. After that, he was bereft without it; there was a cavernous void left behind that needed filling, so he started to draw houses from both the inside and the outside. He drew furniture with which to decorate them and gardens and gazebos and mailboxes. The two-dimensional images were poor substitutes for a real house, but they helped satisfy his preoccupation with dwellings, with homes. His parents made peace with it by convincing themselves he was going to be an architect someday. 

Then Daphne started babysitting, and Justin discovered another thing he yearned for. He wanted a baby. He’d spend whole evenings holding and feeding and changing Daphne’s charges while she did her homework. He loved their little fingers and toes and the scent of the tops of their heads. He loved to dress them up in their little outfits and read to them. He loved their coos and gurgles and even their shrieks. He loved giving them baths and playing with their bath toys. He loved their stuffed animals and rocking horses and the warm pastel colors of their nurseries. But most of all, he loved the way they smiled at him – their gummy, toothless grins. He couldn’t wait to grow up so he could have one of his own (although he skipped over the part necessary for making them. It grossed him out).

Eventually, as with so many other things he liked, he grew ashamed of wanting to babysit and play house. They weren’t things boys did – or should even want to do. So, he shoved his yearnings for houses and babies down deep inside of him where they stayed locked away until J.R. was born and Michael and Ben got married and bought their house. After that, all he could think about was houses and babies and how desperately he wanted to have all of those things with Brian. He wanted them to declare their love in front of their family and friends. He wanted to buy a house – not a condo or another loft, but an actual house in a neighborhood like the one where Linz and Mel lived. He wanted a yard and a garden and a fireplace in front of which he, Brian and their baby (or three) could cuddle up and drink coco (or, in Brian’s case, an Irish Coffee).

Jesus, he was fucked. Because every day, Brian seemed to hate all of those things more and more. Not “dislike,” but “ _hate_ with a fire hotter than the flames of hell.” And the more he hated, the more he engaged in all the behaviors Justin was fucking sick of. Dancing, drinking, drugging, fucking till the wee hours. For Justin, those things had lost their appeal and because Brian didn’t seem to want to do anything else, Brian himself had too – at least the Brian he’d become. Their life together was growing toxic, and Justin was beginning to realize that he wanted out – that he _needed_ out. He didn’t want Brian any longer; he wasn’t sure he even liked Brian anymore with his blasé attitude toward his health – and Justin’s too – and his pathetic obsession with looking young and hot. His refusal to become a real couple. Brian got more immature the more he aged. He was thirty-four going on eighteen. If Justin wasn’t in the habit of caring for him, he would just shake his head and walk away.

But he didn’t want to. What he really wanted was for Brian to _change_. To grow up. To want things that normal adults want. Who gave a shit if they were gay? Gay men could still fall in love, form a lifelong commitment, and build a family together. Look at Ben and Michael! If only Brian wanted these things, Justin would love him again like he used to. He’d throw his whole existence into caring for his young family. Vegetables fresh from the garden in summer and piles of leaves in the yard in the fall. Every meal he’d make from scratch, and they’d eat at a table instead of on the couch in front of the T.V., their baby in its highchair. Brian would talk about Kinnetik, over dinner, and Justin would talk about his artwork, and then they’d discuss their baby and what adventure they’d go on that weekend. If it was a hike, they’d take turns carrying the baby and throwing sticks for their dog. In the winter they’d go cross-country skiing or strolling in museums, and in the spring they’d plant that year’s annuals while their son or daughter played in the new grass. Justin wanted all of these things so fiercely that he started buying homemaking magazines and decorating books and hiding them from Brian like he used to hide porn from his parents. Wanting a family with Brian was all he could think about. His existence had become a fever dream of desire, except this time it wasn’t for Brian, himself. It was for their future together, for the life they could share if only Brian would want it too.

* * * * * * * * * *

After Justin left, Brian found his stash. _Martha Stewart’s Living_ , _Better Homes and Gardens_ , _Cottages and Bungalows_ , _Dwell_ , _Elle Décor_ , _House Beautiful_ , _New Old House_ , _Oprah At Home_ , _Town & Country_, _Traditional Home_ , _Parent & Child_, _Adoptive Families_ , _Parenting: The Early Years_ , _Today’s Parent_ , etc., etc.

He felt all reason leave him, shoved aside by a blinding fury. He spent an afternoon tearing every magazine to shreds – especially the pages featuring ads created by Kinnetik. He was shaking; sweat soaked his shirt. The pain was more savage than the pain he’d felt when Justin had left him for the fiddler because this time it was mixed with a dangerous kind of rage, even hatred.

But it wasn’t directed at Justin. It was directed at the whole world, this pathetic world stained through and through by heteronormativity. Weddings. Houses. The suburbs. Gardens. Yards. White picket fences. Porches with swings and flower boxes on the window sills. Kitchens smelling of freshly baked cookies. Children getting off school buses and running, childish drawings clutched in their hands, toward their mommies in their aprons. Daddies changing shitty diapers and giving baths to screaming infants. Couples cuddling in a bed so full of matching floral pillows that there’s no room to fuck – assuming there’s even a fleeting desire to do so in the first place. Bland, ambitionless, farcical, mediocre, uninspired, banal, tedious, monotonous, ordinary, colorless, unimaginative, lame . . . the list of adjectives went on and on.

One by one all of his friends had succumbed to the desire to fit in, to be acceptable and normal. First it was Lindsay, then Michael and now Ted. And it was only a matter of time for Emmett. Ted was casting around for a partner and a house to decorate like a fisherman on crack fishing for trout. He, Brian, was going to be the sole queer hold-out. He was going to keep proudly living the life he’d always led. He wasn’t going to sell-out. He was going to remain a homosexual and not transform into an unthreatening Stepford Fag. He’d rather die. There was no place for him in a world dictated by heterosexual fear and insecurity, by the lies straight people tell themselves about “love” and “family.” He didn’t want to assimilate; he wanted to fight, and if he lost everything – and everyone – in the process then so fucking what? He had principles he would die to defend. Justin, Mikey, Linz. They can fucking take their little toys and go back to the suburbs, back to their drab, conformist lives. He didn’t miss them. And he sure as hell didn’t need them.

After he was finished shredding Justin’s books and magazines, he got online and invited four guys over. While he was waiting for them to arrive, he drowned himself in whisky, filled his nose with coke, and swallowed as much E has he had on hand. So what if he O.D.ed? At least he’d never have to watch Justin “settle down” and “grow up.” Jesus, Justin was still a fucking kid! What the fuck did he know about anything, including himself? It was Michael who’d seduced him, who’d put all this fucking family shit in his head. It was Michael’s fault, and Brian would rather be damned than ever again cross paths with his former “best friend.” It was over – all of it. Michael and the professor, Justin, Linz and her fucking husband, even Debbie who couldn’t be more thrilled that all her boys wanted to play house. Well, Brian wasn’t going to become some dickless fag like them. Fuck ‘em. Fuck ‘em _all_. They could all take a long walk off a short fucking pier.

When the guys arrived, Brian got out all his toys and used every one. He even hooked up that sling he’d had for years but never used. There was come and lube smeared on the sheets he used to share with Justin. Condoms littered the floor. Someone (him?) smashed a bottle of expensive vodka against a wall. He did things he knew, even at the time, he wouldn’t want to remember in the morning. He defiled every place he and Justin had ever fucked – including the shower where he pissed on one guy’s face. He crossed boundaries he’d never wanted to cross and broke rules he’d made for himself more than a decade ago. He flogged to hurt and cursed to humiliate. When one of the guys got upset and left, Brian berated him for being a little fucking girl. A lesbian. A pathetic faggot. He wasn’t a man, Brian shouted after him. He had a pussy where his dick should be.

And then he passed out. When he woke, he saw he’d been robbed. He didn’t remember the guys’ faces, let alone know their names. He ached all over and puked when he tried to stand up. Just two days ago, he and Justin had been sitting on the couch, drinking coffee in their robes after a leisurely morning fuck. He realized now that Justin must’ve already decided he was going to leave. Brian hadn’t seen it coming. It hadn’t even been on his horizon. Hadn’t he given Justin everything the boy wanted? Justin wanted them to be a couple; they’d become one (albeit not monogamous, but Brian no longer argued when someone referred to Justin as his boyfriend). Justin had wanted to live with him, share a home with him, and Brian had agreed and made space for him in every aspect of his life. He’d kissed and cuddled and protected and encouraged. But it hadn’t been enough. Brian, himself, hadn’t been enough.

Justin had said just before he walked out the door that he supposed it was Brian’s not-enough-ness that he’d always loved. But that same not-enough-ness was also why he left. Love? Bullshit. You don’t stop loving someone, and if you do, then whatever you’d thought you’d felt was never really love to begin with. He should know. He loved Justin. Nothing and no one would ever change that – not even Justin himself. Brian would’ve never walked away. He’d never want to. He loved Justin more than he valued his own life. He loved him. He’d love him till the end of time and maybe, if such a thing were possible, he’d love him even after that. Whatever Justin had felt for him wasn’t love. Brian knew that now. He wished with every fucking fiber of his being that he didn’t.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

He moved in with Michael and Ben while he looked for a place of his own. Every morning, they ate a warm breakfast together, and every evening they shared a home-cooked meal. Hunter was with them and sometimes J.R. The baby provided a welcome distraction. Only when he was with her could he escape the numbness he felt constantly. The rest of the time he merely existed. It wasn’t that he missed Brian – at least the angry, bitter fanatic that Brian had become – it was that he didn’t know where to go or what to do. Nothing called to him. Nothing begged to be accomplished. A remote part of him acknowledged that if he wanted the kind of life Michael and Ben had, he’d need to get out there and start looking for a partner – and he would, but not right now. Not yet.

He’d heard Brian was taking part in some sort of fuck competition with that guy, Brandon. The guy who’d shattered Brian’s world by rejecting him. The same guy who’d taken Justin’s place as most important in Brian’s life. Brian hadn’t been cheating, but he might as well have been because Brandon was all he seemed able to think about, to care about. Brian was throwing away what dignity he had left by trying to cling to the ledge of his desirability, his fading youth. When they’d been together, it had infuriated Justin, but now it just made him sad. He’d never thought he’d ever pity Brian, but he did now. What was Brian going to do a year from now, let alone five? The average age of Babylon’s patrons was probably around twenty-four. Brian had been too old for the scene before Justin had even met him! Now he was all but a fossil – a still beautiful fossil, but a fossil nonetheless. Where was his self-respect? Or had he never really had any to begin with. Had it all been nothing more than smoke and mirrors? Was the great and powerful Wizard of Oz really nothing more than a lonely, aging man behind a curtain?

When Brian had come to the house that night, Justin had been able to smell the alcohol from his upstairs bedroom. He’d pounded on the door and shouted for “the little woman,” the man that he’d once loved because they’d shared the same fixation – not just Brian’s lifestyle but Brian himself. But Michael was through with it all just as Justin was. Just as all of Brian’s friends would be one day if they weren’t already. The man had a fucking child, for fuck sake, and here he was ranting against a hetero straw man he’d built for himself, that existed solely in his own imagination to protect him from self-examination and introspection. Thank God, Michael had fought back. If he had caved, Justin would’ve had to go down to the kitchen and take up the reins himself, and he hadn’t wanted to. It was pretty much the last thing in the world that he wanted to do. Michael had delivered a mortal wound; Justin didn’t want to be the one to actually put Brian out of his misery. He’d left Brian, but he still loved him. He could feel Brian’s pain radiating from his every gesture, his every word, just as he could smell the alcohol on his breath. It won’t take much; just a well-timed, well-aimed remark would do it, would take Brian to his knees. But Justin didn’t want to see it, let alone be the one to do it. Why couldn’t Brian just leave them all alone? Why couldn’t he let them remember his beauty and not this new ugliness? Why did Brian have to drag their fond memories of him through the sludge of his current life? His twisted tangle of anger and fear?

In the end, it was Michael who’d delivered the killing blow. _He left because of you! Who wouldn’t?_ he’d shouted. If Justin had disagreed, he would’ve run down the stairs and said it wasn’t true. But it was. Nothing could be truer. Justin’s only regret was that he wished he, not Michael, had been the one to confirm that truth, but not that night. Not while Brian was drunk and in a rage. He would’ve said it in a letter along with all the other things he’d never said but which Brian needed to know, but now never would.

 

To _not_ be continued . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you guys still going to speak to me after reading this??


	5. Before I Met You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before they actually met on that fateful night, Justin had already fallen for the incomparable Mr. Kinney.

Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, Justin Taylor kissed a girl. It was at a spring mixer with Winchester prep. Daphne kept elbowing him in the side.

“That girl keeps on looking over here,” she whispered, nodding in the direction of a short girl in a fuchsia dress with enormous boobs. “Go ask her to dance.”

He should. He knew he should. This was how guys and girls hooked up. He’d seen enough movies and T.V. and read enough books. But the thought made him queasy and not just in a nervous kind of way. 

“Just do it,” Daphne said, and eventually he did.

The girl smelled okay, kind of flowery, but okay. He tried to concentrate on her perfume and not think about the locker room where just a whiff of a guy’s sweat made his dick twitch. He knew a girl’s scent should make him hard, but all he could think about were those plug-in air fresheners at his aunt’s house.

Other than hugging his relatives and Daphne, he’d never held anyone in his arms before. It felt really weird. Weird, but not necessarily bad. Jessica (he’d figured he should ask her name) was warm against his chest, but she still seemed miles away. Her boobs were gigantic and squishy. They felt like two half-inflated balloons keeping their bodies from actually touching. It was intimate while, at the same time, not intimate at all.

“So,” he said because he felt like he had to say _something_. “Do you like Winchester?”

Fuck. What a stupid question.

“It’s okay,” she replied. “How ‘bout you? Do you like Saint James’? I almost went there.”

Oh, thank _God_ , he thought. They were going to have an actual conversation.

“Why didn’t you?”

“Winchester has a better music program.”

Music program? He didn’t play an instrument and only took chorus because it was mandatory. What now?

“Uhm, what instrument do you play?” he asked.

“Oboe,” she replied.

Fuck. What the hell was an oboe? 

“Cool.”

She shrugged. “I wanted to play clarinet, but there were already too many clarinets in the orchestra.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah.”

And that was it. The conversation sputtered out like the flame on a melted candle. Maybe he should kiss her. At least that way he wouldn’t have to think up another conversation topic.

It was beyond awful. She didn’t expect it, and he sucked at it. His mouth kept slipping off hers. At one point, he found himself French kissing her nose. It wasn’t hot; it wasn’t even nice. And then, to make everything even more awesome, he stepped on her foot and tore off the little sparkly bow on her shoe. Thank God the song finally ended. She told him she had to go to the bathroom and would be back in a minute.

A minute was just long enough for him to go sprinting out the gymnasium door. He called his mom from the MacDonald’s and begged her to pick him up as soon as humanly possible.

“That fun, huh?” his mom asked when he got in the car. He couldn’t tell if she sounded amused or disappointed. Probably a bit of both. “Don’t worry, Justin, sweetheart,” she said, patting his knee. “You’re just a late bloomer. By the way, you have lip gloss on your face.”

He scrubbed his cheek as though it was some kind of toxic goo.

Back at home, his dad was full of winks and manly innuendos. Justin must’ve looked so miserable that his mom finally stepped in and told his dad to give him a break.

“It was a well-chaperoned high school dance, Craig,” she said. “Not a strip club.” She handed Justin a glass of Dr. Pepper full of crushed ice just how he liked it. “Here you go, honey.”

“I remember those ‘well-chaperoned’ private school mixers,” his dad said with yet another wink in Justin’s direction.

It was actually kind of sad. His dad _so_ wanted him to play a sport and have a girlfriend and hang around with “the dudes” instead of his bookish childhood (black, female) pal. He wanted Justin to be like Justin’s cousin, Keith, who was captain of the lacrosse team and avoided Justin at school as though Justin was a leper. He hadn’t heard anyone say it, but he knew it was only a matter of time. He knew what Keith and Chris Hobbs and their friends thought about him. “Artsy fartsy” was no longer the innocuous taunt it’d been in grade school. It was only a matter of time before someone broke the code of silence and uttered the F-word. And by the F-word, Justin didn’t mean “fuck.”

“I’m going to bed,” he said, and his mom came over and kissed his forehead.

“Sleep well, sweetheart,” she said, brushing his hair back from his face.

He was barely out of the room before he heard his dad chastise her yet again for “babying” him. “It’ll be _your_ fault, Jennifer,” he said, “and you know damn well what I’m talking about.”

* * * * * * * * *

Please don’t let me be gay please don’t let me be gay please don’t let me be gay please don’t let me be gay please don’t let me be gay please don’t let me be gay please don’t let me be gay please don’t let me be gay please don’t let me be gay please don’t let me be gay.

He spent much of his time during the summer before his senior year praying to God to make all the crazy thoughts go away. He even stooped to bargaining, promising he’d go to church every Sunday and baby-sit Molly without grousing about it. As though God even gave a shit.

How did it happen? Was it because he’d played doctor with Joey that one time? Was it because he jerked off to photos in his dad’s copies of _Men’s Health_ magazine? Maybe he should try jerking off with the _Sport’s Illustrated_ swim suit issue. The girls were definitely pretty . . . but they didn’t turn him on. Not even a little bit. Why was he fixated on muscled chests and not giant boobs? It just wasn’t natural! And there was no one he could talk to about it, not even Daphne.

He felt so fucking alone. He couldn’t even go online to do some research (yes, _research_ ) because of the stupid Net Nanny software.

He knew he was growing depressed. He felt listless and angry at the world. Not even clothes shopping cheered him up for long. Nor did videogames distract him for more than a couple of hours. And having a permanent hard-on all the time definitely didn’t help. No matter how many times he jerked off (which was virtually every other hour), the ache in his balls never went away.

_I just want a kiss_ , he said to himself. _Just one kiss, and then I swear I’ll stop fantasizing about guys. Please. Just one; it’s all I’m asking for_.

But where the hell would he find a guy who’d want to kiss him? All the hot guys at school were into girls. Centerfolds adorned their lockers, and they wore their weekend hickies like badges of honor. They made out with their girlfriends between classes and talked endlessly of “getting a piece” of fill-in-the-blank-with-a-popular-girl’s-name. It was torture. Sheer unadulterated torture.

“You seem so miserable all the time,” Daphne kept saying as they hung around the pool in a futile attempt to endure the relentless humidity of a Pittsburgh July. “If you’re so bored, why don’t you get a job somewhere? I can ask my boss at Peppi’s if there’s an opening.”

Jesus, work? That was the _last_ thing he wanted.

“You’re just bored,” Daphne said. “Try something new for a change.”

“Like what?”

“Like, I don’t know. Take up belly-dancing or something.”

“Lot of help you are.”

But she was right. He really did need to try something new – something to take his mind off his dick for at least a couple minutes. But what?

* * * * * * * *

He discovered the “alternative” newspaper in the little coffee shop near the gym. His mom was late picking him up – something to do with Molly and soccer practice. He’d never been in the shop before. He didn’t even like coffee, but he was bored, and Daphne had told him to try something new and get out of his comfort zone, so why not?

It was gloomy inside – at least compared to the blazing sun radiating off the sidewalks. There were chairs and lumpy sofas and lots of really weird art on the walls. There was even a guy with a Sherlock Holmes’ beard smoking a pipe. The tobacco smelled good and even the coffee did too.

“What do you want?” a girl in dreadlocks asked from behind the counter.

He peered into the pastry case, but there were no donuts. “I don’t know,” he said. “Whatever you think is good.”

“The scones are definitely the best,” she replied. “Bathsheba just brought them in. They’re probably still warm.”

Scones? Isn’t that something they ate in England? He shrugged. “Sure,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. The girl’s eyebrows were pierced. He wondered how much it had hurt.

“Anything to drink?” she asked, pulling out a scone with a piece of wax paper and putting it on a chipped turquoise plate. 

He felt like a dweeb, but neither coffee nor tea was his thing. “Do you have anything cold?” he asked, blushing.

“How about some fresh-squeezed lemonade?”

“Fuck, yeah,” he said without thinking and clapped a hand over his mouth. “Opps, sorry. I meant ‘okay.’”

The girl laughed and called over to Sherlock Holmes. “Blondy here just apologized for swearing. Isn’t that sweet?”

Sherlock didn’t look up from his tattered copy of _On the Road_. “Well, he Goddamn, fucking should be sorry. This is a fucking smut-free zone. Watch your fucking language, kid.”

He was so dry that it took half a mortifying second before Justin realized he was kidding. He blushed again for being so slow on the uptake. He took his scone and lemonade and sat down on a dilapidated velvet armchair that looked like it’d once belonged to someone’s great-grandmother. There was a wood coffee table covered with words and doodles that’d been carved and blackened over the years. It was so cluttered with magazines and newspapers that it was hard to find a place to set his plate. He picked up a random pamphlet and then dropped it like a hot coal. Breast feeding and natural childbirth were definitely _not_ his thing. He browsed through the other stuff. “Integral Yoga,” “Homeopathy Today,” “Cannabis Culture,” “The Advocate”. . . .

Holy fucking crap on a cracker! _The Liberty Ave Issue,_ ” the cover read. _Find out here about the hottest clubs, the hottest bars and the hottest guys!_

Justin hands _itched_ to pick it up. He shook all over with an adrenaline rush. God, he _had_ to have it. Slowly – very _very_ slowly – he moved it toward his gym bag, jumping whenever a customer came in.

“Just take it,” Sherlock said, still not raising his eyes from his book. “There are plenty more where it came from.”

Justin wanted to die.

“Thanks,” he mumbled. He threw back the lemonade, grabbed the newspaper, stuffed it in his gym bag and made a beeline for the door.

* * * * * * * * *

Yes, the articles looked interesting and the ads even more so, but Justin was focused like a heat-seeking missile on the photo section entitled _Liberty’s Luscious Lovelies_. It was full of men who looked like men and men who looked like women and women who looked like women and women who looked like men. There were muscly men and lithe men and boys who didn’t look much older than he was. There were guys with their shirts off and their flies open wide enough to show a glimpse of pubic hair. There were guys with blond hair, black hair, even pink hair. Some wore Abercrombie  & Fitch, some wore cropped net shirts, and some wore leather. They were all beautiful, even the old guys in their thirties. Justin’s hands shook, and he kept wiping droplets of sweat off his forehead even though the air conditioner was turned up all the way . . .

. . . and then he saw him. The most beautiful man of them all. He was wearing a tight, black, short-sleeved shirt unbuttoned almost to the middle of his chest. His head was thrown back, his eyes closed and his throat shone with sweat. He looked like the swooning saints in the Renaissance art books, completely lost in what he was feeling, his hair damp and clinging to his face. _The incomparable Kinney_ the words beneath his photo read. _Liberty Ave’s greatest attraction. Just be warned, his dance card is more exclusive than the reservation list at the swankiest restaurant this side of Philly. Good luck, boys. You’ll need it_.

Justin stared and stared. The man wasn’t a model in a magazine. The man wasn’t a movie star. He was a real live person who lived somewhere in the same city Justin did. He had a job and went grocery shopping and did his laundry. Justin may even have crossed his path one or two times! It wasn’t impossible; Pittsburgh was hardly New York or Chicago.

Justin _had_ to draw him – it felt less like inspiration and more like raw necessity. He scrambled off his bed to get paper and pencils. Once he started drawing, his hand moved with a consciousness all its own. It was as though he had sketched the man before – that he already knew him in some way he couldn’t explain. He finished the sketch in record time and at the bottom of the drawing, he wrote “The Incomparable Kinney.” Forget Brad Pitt. Justin had found a new fantasy.

* * * * * * * * *

“You’re going _where_?”

Justin reached out and clapped a hand over Daphne’s big mouth. “Please try not to tell the whole neighborhood,” he hissed.

“Why would you want to go _there_? Isn’t it dangerous?”

Justin sighed with exasperation. “How do you know that?”

“Everyone knows that.”

“I must’ve missed the memo,” he said, grinning at her. But she wasn’t laughing.

“I’m serious, Justin. You can’t go there. At least not alone.”

“Okay, then come with me.”

They were in their usual spot by the pool with their feet dangling in the water. She stared unseeingly at Molly’s inflatable Sponge Bob ball. He could tell she was torn.

“Come on,” he wheedled. “It’ll be fun.”

She lifted her head and stared into his eyes as though he was considering moving to Mongolia instead of visiting Liberty Avenue.

“I don’t even get why you want to go there,” she said.

“I told you it’s just an adventure. It was you who told me to try something new.”

“I didn’t mean going some place all alone where something bad could happen to you.”

He sighed and stood up. “Fine. I’ll go alone then. Will you at least drop me off at the bus stop?” He held out his hand and pulled her to her feet.

Recognizing a lost cause when she saw it, she gave up trying to talk him out of his plans. “At least it’s Tuesday,” she said. “How scary can any place be on a Tuesday?”

He laughed giddily. He felt light and his fingers tingled. She gave him A Look.

“Breathe,” she said, but the admonishment was futile. He tried, but it still wasn’t enough to counteract the dizziness.

“Ten thirty,” she said, reading his mind as always. “I’ll be waiting to pick you up.”

It was all he could do to resist grabbing her and spinning her around. Instead he tried a nonchalant shrug. “I’ll probably come home before the last bus,” he said. “I’m just going sight-seeing. It’s not like I’ll be spending the night there or something.”

She punched him in the arm. “Better not be.”

* * * * * * * * *

What had he been thinking??

Justin got off the bus and was immediately engulfed by color and sound. He’d never seen so much neon or so many people in the streets after dark. And that was only the start of it. Everywhere he looked, he saw men holding each other’s hands or kissing or outright groping. Not only had Justin never seen anything like it in his life, he’d never even imagined it. Dance music spilled out of doorways. People (mostly men) were laughing and calling to each from sidewalk to sidewalk. He’d never seen so much pink in his life, nor so many Jeeps. Shop windows were full of displays for dildos and harnesses and things Justin didn’t even know the name for. All around him people were dressed in super hot clothes – or virtually none at all. Tight, revealing, exotic. He felt so stupid in his sneakers and plaid shirt. Thank God, he’d thought far enough ahead to buy cigarettes. Having something in his hand meant he didn’t have to wonder where to put it. The guys at school wore baggy pants and stood with their hands in their pockets, but no one was doing that here – probably because everyone’s pants were too tight.

God, what had he been thinking?

A guy bumped his shoulder as he passed, and Justin turned to look at him, expecting an apology, but all he got was a lingering look that swept up and down his body like a paintbrush, pausing at his crotch. Justin blushed. No one had ever looked at him that way before. He felt more unnerved than flattered. Everything would be easier if he had an invisibility cloak like Harry Potter. He wanted to look without being looked at.

_Grow a pair, Taylor_ , he admonished himself. _Do something other than just stand around_. But what? There were tons of places that looked like clubs or bars. How to choose which one to go to? Unlike Disney World, there was no handy map of Liberty Avenue with detailed descriptions of all the attractions. He’d have to ask somebody, but whom?

The guy looked like someone’s dad. How weird could he be? He wasn’t wearing leather or latex, just a t-shirt. Justin had always trusted adults. He walked over and damn it if the guy didn’t give him a once-over. Given the fact that he was a million years, Justin barely suppressed a shudder of revulsion. Gross! What a pervert! He took a deep breath.

“Excuse me,” he asked. “ Uh, could you tell me, like, where's a good place to go?”

The man seemed amused by his question. “Depends what you're looking for. You want twinkies, go to BoyToy. You want leather, go to the Meathook. If you want snotty, conceited assholes who think they're better than everybody else, try Pistol.”

He smirked and gave Justin another lingering assessment. Again, Justin barely suppressed a shudder.

“Kind of late to be out, though, isn't it?” the man said. “Especially on a school night? Why don't you come home with me, huh?”

He reached out and touched Justin’s neck, tugging Justin toward him. Justin took a big step back.

“No thanks,” he said, and the man rolled his eyes.

“Go on home to your mommy,” he said dismissively. “Go on.”

Now there’s an idea, Justin thought. Home suddenly seemed like a very good place to be. He’d had his adventure. It was time to get on the bus and flee back to the suburbs. He walked across the street, assessing his options. He could try one of the clubs the old perv had mentioned, but he suspected he wasn’t dressed right. Plus, his fake I.D. was really lame. Even though he’d paid a zillion dollars, it looked fake and shitty. Plus his name was Arthur Snodgrass. What bouncer would ever let him in?

Shit. This was dumb. He didn’t belong here any more than he belonged on the football team. He was out of place, uncomfortable and even a little frightened. He had a feeling that the old guy wasn’t going to be the only stranger to hit on him. Suddenly, doing his calculus homework seemed like a tantalizing way to spend the evening. He’d hang out with Daphne and let her cheat off his answers, but only if she gave him a synopsis of _The Iliad_. It was hard to keep track of all the characters.

He leaned against a lamp post feeling as disappointed as he used to feel when he opened his Christmas presents only to discover that the thing he really wanted wasn’t there . . .

. . . but then he felt it. Someone’s gaze. He looked up. There he was. The beautiful man with the exclusive dance card, and he was looking right at Justin. It took only an instant before suddenly he was there, standing well within Justin’s personal space, the man he’d dreamed about every day since he discovered that newspaper in the coffee shop. The incomparable Kinney. Not even “Jaws” had terrified him so completely. The man must’ve asked a question because all of a sudden Justin was saying some of the stupidest things he’d ever said. He must’ve been as transparent as Saran Wrap because the man was smirking at him and saying “so you’re into leather.” It wasn’t a question. Justin shrugged. What else could he do? He wasn’t even sure what being “into leather” meant, but whatever it was, he was pretty sure the answer was “no.” But what does he say? “Sure.”

The man’s smirk grew even more delighted. He was batting Justin around like a cat does a mouse before the final bite. Hold your ground he told himself. If you let this man walk away, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. He had a feeling that “Kinney” didn’t dole out second chances. So when he asked Justin where he was headed, Justin had the good sense not to lie.

“No place special,” he said, miraculously not proceeding to babble about Calculus homework and _The Iliad_.

“I can change that,” the man said, effectively killing any bravado Justin may still have posssessed with a simple wetting of his lips and a glimpse of his tongue. 

“Brian!” someone yelled, and that’s how The Incomparable Kinney became “Brian.” The next thing Justin knew was that he was getting in the passenger door of the swankiest Jeep he’d ever seen. Brian stepped on the clutch and started the engine, provoking one of his companions to shout “Hey, hey! What about us?” Justin looked at them. He was in “Brian’s car” looking at “Brian’s” friends and probably headed to wherever it was that “Brian” lived. If his eyes didn’t itch from the pine tree pollen, he would’ve thought he was dreaming yet another one of his “Kinney dreams.”

Brian didn’t speak, and Justin couldn’t think of anything to say. Thank God, the drive was short. Brian drove fast and got right up on people’s bumpers. Justin suddenly heard Ed, his driving instructor’s voice: _Always keep a car length between you and the car ahead of you_.

“Fucking idiot,” Brian muttered when a person took half a second to move forward when a light turned green. He honked, and the other guy gave him the finger. Brian’s response was to swerve into the other lane and pass him with a huge malevolent grin on his face. The guy flipped him off again, and Brian laughed.

They were going to die. Justin was sure of it, but then the next thing he knew, Brian had stopped and was waving a key card at a gate sensor. It took a moment, during which Brian muttered “Goddamn piece of shit. I told the fucking super to fix that fucking thing.” 

Oh God, Justin thought. What have I done?

“Home sweet home,” Brian said. They rode up several stories in an elevator that looked like it must’ve been designed to move corn meal or something. It was weird and added to the overall foreignness of the whole situation. Then Brian disabled an alarm and slid open a massive steel door.

This was definitely not a house in a planned suburb like his parents’. It was gritty and aggressive and very masculine.

Jesus, he was going to get fucked. This wasn’t going to be gentle kisses and holding hands.

Brian confirmed the probability by stripping off his leather jacket and throwing it over the back of a couch.


End file.
